Pieces of Narnia
by Nitesh
Summary: One hundred oneshots in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, written for the Fanfic100 challenge on livejournal.
1. Sight

**Before we begin this, I feel inclined to mention just what this is.**

**I have joined a community on livejournal called Fanfic100, which is basically a fanfiction writer's challenge. You pick a fandom, character, pairing, what have you, and write one hundred fics about itbased on a prompt table. If anyone is up to the challenge… I totally recommend it. It's really fun.**

**These will all be out of order, but they're one-shots, so nobody cares, yeah?**

**And if anyone has any ideas, be sure to throw them out to me… I got quite a few to go. :D**

**

* * *

**

**Title**: Watch  
**Characters:** Tumnus, Peter, Lucy  
**Prompt:** 040 - Sight  
**Word Count: **Approx. 1,500  
**Rating:** G  
**Summary:** Peter and Tumnus have a little chat about Lucy.

**Sight**

Since winter's downfall, things had been calming down, and by a few months' time after the slaying of the White Witch and her army, things that can only be described as "ordinary business" could happen. King Peter and Queen Susan, being the older of the royalty and better learned, handled most of the affairs themselves, though Kind Edmund and Queen Lucy also played their own part in maintaining the serenity of Narnia. Many saw their work as merely playing, exploring, finding new places and meeting new friends, but in reality, they were unknowingly seeing that Narnia remained peaceful, by keeping alert to the news from its inhabitants.

The Cair Paravel sat on top of a sweeping, grassy hill near the sea. On the sea's opposite side was a forest. Edmund tended to envelop himself with the affairs of the sea-birds and the merpeople, which suited Lucy just fine. She cared more about the woods to the west of the sea, spending hours at a time with the squirrels and deer and—most of all—with the trees.

At a time when she was doing just that, Mr. Tumnus the Faun was standing outside on one of the stone outlooks of the Cair Paravel, one that was rather similar to the one he and Lucy had watched Aslan on months earlier, although this one was facing the woods instead of the sandy beaches of the sea.

He had been standing there for quite a while, comfortably leaning against the stone wall on his forearms, crossing his hands. His tattered white umbrella, which he carried more out of habit then actual necessity, lay near them. Lucy was a good distance away from him, on the edge of the forest, but close enough to see her face. She was facing away from him, however, and unbeknownst to him, she was actually conversing quite energetically with an elderly birch that seemed to be having difficulty adjusting to the warmer climate.

At this point, he was contenting himself with watching Lucy as she scrambled at first a little to the left, and then a little to the right. A wavering form of another human in swirling leaves stood beside her, and he could see the head tilt back and forth as she was moving animatedly. A smile had slipped its way onto his face.

_Good girl_, he thought.

"Mr. Tumnus?"

He wheeled, his hooves clacking and scraping on the stone ground. He found he had seized his umbrella in his shock and brandished it in front of him, only to find a bemused King Peter, smiling slightly. His crown was in his hands and his pants were full of mud at the knees, a matching smudge on the nose.

He immediately lowered his umbrella in horror. "Sire," he stuttered, bowing slightly and fixing his gaze on the ground as he felt his face heat up. "I—I didn't hear you approach."

Peter laughed and clapped Tumnus on the shoulder, causing the Faun to look back up into his eyes. "I see that. And how many times have I told you to call me Peter?" The young king walked over to the wall and leaned against it in a manner that was similar to Tumnus'. "You especially have had that right for a long time."

"I… Well, that is to say, I… it's not…" He found that he couldn't find the words, and instead made several frustrated noises as his ears drooped.

Peter seemed to ignore him, gazing out over the forest. "What were you looking at?" he murmured. He placed the crown gingerly on the wall and wound his fingers over the edge.

Tumnus wasn't sure how this simple question became even more uncomfortable then the last, and his stutter worsened. "Just… looking, out into the forest," he said. He shifted his umbrella from hand to hand before finally sighing and placing it on the wall next to Peter's crown, taking his place beside him.

"I see," said Peter after a pause. He was tracing a pattern in the rock absently with a finger, and Tumnus saw him draw a spiral that began a curly lettering that traced an H, an E and then an L before a fist came down on top of it. His smile was gone now, although he didn't look angry or sad. "And what are you doing _here_? In the Cair Paravel, I mean?"

"I was…" he glanced out to the edge of the forest again, where Lucy had flopped down underneath an oak but still seemed to be talking. He almost felt as if he was making a decision. "I was actually going to ask Lucy if she wanted to come to lunch with me."

Peter looked over at him, smile settling familiarly back on his face. "A long way to walk to just ask someone to lunch."

He found that he was smiling tentatively back. "It would be worth the walk back if it is in good company. You're quite welcome to come as well," he added quickly, hoping the king wouldn't find his invitation insulting.

Peter shook his head, returning to looking now down at Lucy. "No, that's alright," he said equally quick, waving a hand. In the silence, they both watched Lucy as she now circled the oak tree, still chattering to the figure of leaves.

"She's very fond of you, you know."

"I know." He reddened as Peter looked over at him. "That, that, u-um, actually, I m-meant… I meant to say that I'm rather fond of her too."

Peter smiled and looked away again. "I know."

A bounce from Lucy, and an elaborate hand gesture caused Tumnus to laugh softly. "She looks so… young."

"Well, she should. She's hardly eight."

Tumnus looked down at his clasped hands. "She seems so much older," he said quietly.

"Yes, she does, doesn't she." It was not really phrased in a way that seemed answerable, but Tumnus nodded briefly down at his hands anyway. "But she still has much growing up to do."

Lucy stumbled over a tree root, and Tumnus stiffened until she resumed her lively step again.

"Seems almost as if I shouldn't let her out there at all." Tumnus glanced sideways over at Peter, his hand stroking his jaw absently. He suddenly looked much older then his years. "Who knows what's in those woods."

"Aslan knows," Tumnus responded, an easy smile coming across his face. "He never would have left if there was anything in there that would hurt Lucy."

They watched as Lucy raised her head and looked to the castle, and saw a grin break out over her face. She leapt up and waved, pumping her entire arm up and down. Tumnus and Peter waved back, Tumnus feeling as light as ever as she began to sprint up the hill towards them, holding her skirt over the waving grass.

"Mr. Tumnus," Peter turned toward the Faun, "there are three people that I trust in Narnia with Lu, that I'd trust with my family. The first ones are the Beavers. The second one is Aslan. And the third one is you." He clapped the Faun on the shoulder with something other then just friendliness. It was something that the Faun hadn't had felt in a hundred years, since winter fell. It was trust. It was relaxation, it was confidence, it was... expectation. He clasped him similarly on the shoulder, and nodded. In that nod his accepted a duty that he almost only knew within himself. A duty to his king and to his queen, his _kings_ and _queens_. To the family that he would watch over, not entirely out of duty, but out of something that he knew that Aslan valued _above_ duty. Love.

Lucy appeared on the overlook, a wide smile on her face. "Oh, Mr. Tumnus, you've been ages!" She threw her arms around his waist in a hug and he couldn't help but swing her around in a circle for joy. "Have you come for lunch?"

"On the contrary, my lady," he said, the respectful tone slipping into his words as he grinned down at the girl. "I have come to ask _you_ to lunch."

She stood back a moment and placed her hands on her waist, frowning at him. "Well, Mr. Tumnus, I don't know, you haven't come to the Cair Paravel to see me in a long while. Will there be sardines?" Only a smile lurking in the corners of her mouth betrayed her seriousness.

He pretended to consider it for a moment. "Well, I suppose I haven't had a Queen of Narnia to lunch before. That seems cause enough for celebration, yes?" He scooped up his umbrella in one hand, and, like always, held it open for Lucy to walk beneath—an old habit always died hard, but he would never mind this one.

Taking his arm, the pair left Cair Paravel's overlook of the woods. As they passed again beneath it, Tumnus looked up to see Peter staring down at them, his expression unreadable on his face. He raised an arm to wave as he saw the Faun look up, and he returned a small smile.

They were seen until the woods, and then gone.


	2. Stars

**For the person who kindly asked, you can get to the community by going to livejournal (dot) com, then by looking up "Fanfic100." I hope that helps, though if you're still confused, you can get to it by going to my livejournal (link's in my bio page), clicking "User Info," and Fanfic100 is listed in my communities. **

* * *

**Title**: Stars  
**Characters:** Edmund, Susan  
**Prompt:** 046 - Star  
**Word Count:** Approx. 1300  
**Rating:** G  
**Summary:** Susan and Edmund go star watching, even though Susan is, after all, too scientific to enjoy such a thing.

**Stars**

"How many do you think are up there?"

Susan shifted for a moment before clasping her hands and bringing them up to rest her head on them. The subtle incline of the hill only slightly pulled at her ankles, and the taller grasses were the only things that framed her view of the sky. "An infinite amount. It's almost certain that the universe is constantly expanding, or goes on forever. Billions of billions of stars. It's impossible to count them all."

Edmund's head was a few feet away from or "above" Susan's head, had she been standing and Edmund was upside-down. His arms had been crossed neatly over his chest, although at this point he was playing with a long blade of the dry grass, shredding it absently into thin, even pieces. As soon as he heard Susan's answer to his intended hypothetical question, he scowled up at the sky. "You're no fun to star-watch with," he muttered finally.

"And why is that?" she said, her question coming off as more biting then she had intended.

"Because you're so... scientific all the time!"

Susan drew her knees up, a retort dying on her lips. They had only been out here for a little less then ten minutes, and already they were fighting. Couldn't they go without an argument for just a little while?

_Well, _she thought to herself darkly, _he did start it_.

There was a frozen moment between the two of them while they both stared up at the sky, unable to think of anything else to say to one another.

Finally Susan sighed, and squinted up at the sky. "Do you see anything up there?"

There was a long pause, and for a moment Susan thought that Edmund was deliberately ignoring her. She had just opened her mouth to snarl something angrily in return to his silence when Edmund spoke. "What?"

"Remember when Dad would show us pictures in the stars? Like lions or umbrellas or eagles? We used to do that all the time, before—" Her voice caught in her throat and she stopped. Yes, before. Before her father had gotten sick that long stretch of time. Before the war. Before they had been send away.

Edmund did remember them, and he nodded before realizing that Susan couldn't see him. "You could never see any of them," he accused. Susan had always hated the star-shape games, indifferently calling them childish while Lucy and Edmund and even Peter looked up into the night sky.

"I saw some of them," she admitted. "Like that one-legged rabbit that Dad kept going on about, that one summer."

Edmund immediately rolled around to prop himself up on his elbows, staring at Susan in disbelief. "Nobody saw that!"

"I did. It was stretched out sideways."

"You should have showed me!" There was no disguising the hurt tone in his voice with anger.

Her next words were not pitying, but unhappy. "I should have," she said quietly. She remembered the look on her father's face when none of them (to his knowledge) were able to see it. He had sat back and said what a shame it was, that his children couldn't see what had to be the best star-shape yet. He tried pointing it out multiple times, but to no avail until Susan had caught it on the third try. Flushed with success, but unable to comment because the game was "beneath her," she remained silent. As time went on, her father gave up, saying that it was a real loss. The one-legged rabbit was his favorite.

"I don't believe you," said Edmund. "Show it to me now, then."

"I can't," she said immediately. "The stars are different in Narnia." She had noticed it weeks ago, that the familiar constellations had vanished.

He looked up again, pursed his lips, and fell back on his back, unable to dispute the fact. "I think the stars move," he said. "They seem different then they were a few nights ago."

She hadn't thought of that, and frowned before relaxing her face. "I think that here that would be likely."

There was another pause, although this one was much more comfortable then the last.

"I see an elephant."

Susan did not look at her brother. "Yeah? Where?"

Edmund kept his arms crossed across his chest. "The star the brightest next to the moon is the end of it's tusk. It kind of slopes down away from the moon with those three stars—and... and there's a circle of them for the head. Then a body and there are those straight... _aligned_ stars for legs." His arm reached up to point, but it fell again uselessly. Susan was supposed to find it on her own. "So the elephant is standing on the moon."

"I think I see it," Susan said after a moment.

"You don't."

"Yes, I do," said Susan with more conviction. She raised herself up to sitting position and traced the stars. "And he's got a ropy tail, and there are his ears," she said, her gestures reminiscent of the brush strokes of a renowned painter.

Edmund twisted his head to look up at his sister in surprise, one eye narrowed in doubt. Then he checked his sky-picture. "I didn't see the ears," he said at last.

"Well, you do now. He seemed a bit lonely without his ears anyway."

Edmund laughed, and a spilt second later, Susan joined in.

"Why haven't you ever been this fun before?" It was a real, genuine question, something that Susan would have undoubtedly taken offense to any other time they had been talking. But Edmund's quiet wonder made her fall quiet as their laughs echoed around them. "You haven't been like this in a long time."

Susan flopped down again, pressing her palms over her eyes. "I suppose not. Lucy says it's because I got boring."

"Well, you did."

"Well, if I got boring, you got mean."

Neither sibling could bring themselves to break the moment of peace they were having, though Susan regretted her words as soon as they were out of her mouth as a troubled look settled upon Edmund's face. "I suppose I did," he finally said.

"Though you're not anymore." A helpful reminder. "You and Peter are getting along with each other better now, I've noticed."

"Yeah, though it took a sword shoved through my stomach for me to realize that maybe there were things more important then just me all the time." A hand instinctively rose to rest upon his upper stomach, where a scar still remained, and Susan winced. "And I guess you're not as boring," he said after a moment's pause.

"You _guess_?" she said, her words as insulted as possible.

"Yes, I guess," he retorted playfully. "You could always have lied about the one-legged rabbit."

"I saw your elephant, didn't I?" she asked smiling. "And we can always see the rabbit when we're back—"

"Back home?" Edmund interrupted abruptly. Susan stopped.

When would they be going back? They could stay as long as they wanted here, if Lucy and Edmund were telling the truth in saying that the world outside the Wardrobe froze in time. They never had to leave, if they didn't want to. Though, what if they died here in Narnia? It didn't seem right that they would never return to a place that never would get into motion again, just because four siblings decided to leave and had never returned.

"We'll go back eventually," Susan said softly. "But we're needed here much more then we are there."

"_Much_ more," Edmund agreed, not glum, but with a quiet sadness.

Susan didn't know what else to say, so she went silent. Soon, the only noise was the wind blowing through the dried grass, but Susan only looked at the sky.

"I see a lion."


	3. Food

**Title**: Essential  
**Characters:** Beaver, Fox  
**Prompt:** 059 - Food  
**Word Count:** Approx. 1600  
**Rating:** PG, for no better reason other than Fox seems like a PG type of guy.  
**Summary:** Beaver's walking home, and he stops for a moment to chat with an old… acquaintance.  
**Author's Notes**: Aww, Fox. I loved how his character was developed in the movie. He's not as shady as he seems all the time. His apparent opinion of Edmund, however, surprised me. Bitter bitter, Mr. Fox. I'm also enjoying how these one-shots keep turning into two-person talking sessions. One day I will write something in which the characters actually do something.

**Food**

He knew that everyone needed something. He wasn't thinking about things like water, food, a proper shelter. Those admittedly were things that were necessary to live, but some things were just necessary to find in order to have a life that was worth living. Things to be destined for throughout life's path, to make a person truly complete. Happy. Successful. Something worth it's weight in emotional gold.

Beaver believed in that, and believed that he had that. He had his wife and he had, perhaps, the thought of little Beavers running around. He had a family, and a home that he had built with his own two paws. He had helped end the Hundred Year Winter. Yes, he had mattered. And he was happy.

He was walking home when he came across him, deep in the woods, laying across the path. His back was to Beaver as he walked up to him cautiously, still remembering the disreputable times of the White Witch. Red back, bushy tail with a splotch of white, large, bat-like ears—

Beaver relaxed almost immediately, slapping his tail down on the ground in recognition. "Oh, hello Fox."

Beaver saw Fox stiffen, the fur bristling slightly before settling again, and he frowned. Fox had almost certainly heard him coming, hadn't he? "'Ello, Beaver," he mumbled without turning around.

"What're you doing out here?" Beaver was genuinely confused. The sun was beginning to set, and although it wasn't Winter anymore, a definite chill filled the air in the woods, and crept through the trees like the late icy queen herself. He caught himself before adding "You'll catch your death," sure that Fox wouldn't appreciate the sentiment. Instead, he let his question hang in the cold air awkwardly.

"Eating."

"But I don't think that it's— oh my!" Beaver had just circled around Fox to talk to him face-to-face, as many people are inclined to do when talking to others, but unfortunately had caught sight of exactly what Fox had been eating, wedged between his two rather gory paws. He leapt back with a startled squeak as Fox eyed him without moving.

"Oh, do give it a rest, Beaver," said Fox crossly. "It wasn't a _talkie_, for Aslan's sake."

"But I… oh, Fox, you could have at least cooked it—"

"I'm not picky about eating." There were bloodstains on his muzzle, and Beaver felt sick. "I catch it, I kill it, I eat it. Not much of a meal in this case, but that's life." He bent his head to bite another sizeable chunk out of the mouse, and Beaver looked away determinedly. He heard a snapping sound, then after another moment he heard an irritated sigh. "If it makes you _feel_ any better, I don't believe it suffered."

"That's something positive." Beaver tried to look Fox in the face without glancing down to the attracting red between his paws. "But still, Fox, eating it raw—"

"Well, not all of us have kitchens to go to every night, Beaver," he said simply. "Besides, I rather like it the way it is. Quite a fulfilling taste. I'd offer you a bite, but then, there's not much of a bite to be had." He grinned, showing very red teeth.

Despite Fox's usual attitude, Beaver couldn't help but feel an almost begrudging rush of sympathy towards him. He had no stable home, and no Mrs. Fox to live for. As far as he knew, he had no friends and no relations. He had all these things, and Fox… well. Fox was Fox. He had always been this way, and no one thought anything of it because that's just how he was.

"You know, Fox, you are always welcome to come around to—"

"Ugh, I'm not asking for your pity." He waved a gory paw airily (or as airily as possible) before settling it back around the near-finished mouse meal. "I'm sure you mean well by it, but it's not necessary."

Beaver, sufficiently shot down, shrugged. He hadn't really expected anything else, and there was no point in pursuing the situation, insisting. That would just be beating a dead… well, mouse. He figured that he might as well be off, and was just about to announce that he would just be on his merry way when Fox interrupted once again. "I do appreciate the gesture, though," he said quietly. His head was bowed, and he was thoughtfully surveying one of his paws with a scrutiny that made Beaver slightly surprised that it was not being used on his dinner. "It's kind of you to ask."

There was a short pause while Fox allowed Beaver to absorb this. Then he plowed on. "What were you doing out here, anyway?" He leaned into take another, smaller bite of his meal.

Beaver swelled up slightly. "I was at the Castle, aiding King Edmund and Queen Susan in their gardening. Planted some tulips and daffodils. King Peter and Queen Lucy weren't in, unfortunately, but it was good to see the pair of them again."

Fox stopped chewing, his eyes on Beaver. Then he swallowed. "Edmund…" He seemed to be turning the name over in his mouth, as if it was a new thing to be tasting and he was attempting to guess its origin. "That's the little dark boy, yes?"

Beaver didn't think it was possible to not know which Pevensie was which, nor did he believe that Fox's apparent indifference towards Narnia's rulers had extended so far. But he humored him and nodded.

"Ah, yes… the traitor." His voice was a low growl as he finally got to his feet, sweeping aside the mouse carcass with one swipe of his paw. "Don't think I could have forgotten him." He bent his back into a long, catlike stretch.

"Fox!" Beaver gasped, genuinely shocked. "He was a child, and stronger men from Narnia's armies have been likewise bewitched by _her_. Less of them came back. Aslan forgave him for it, and so should you." He tried to make his voice carry as much authority as it could, in defense of the family he had sworn his faithfulness to. Fox only looked at him blankly.

"No…" Fox mused, sounding thoughtful. "No, I've never forgiven that boy for that," he said, his tone becoming matter-of-fact. "He was stupid, really. Gave up Aslan, and his kin. Gave up _my_ sacrifice, and got me turned into a statue, to boot. No idea of strategy. Never apologized. Probably would have forgiven him if he had." He growled the last sentence into his paw as he rubbed at his muzzle. Beaver hoped that he wasn't trying to wipe away the blood, unless he was planning on transferring some from his paws to his jaw. "Yes, I believe I would have."

It wasn't him talking, Beaver knew. It was more pride than anything else. "He's your king!"

Fox spun around to face Beaver. His teeth were bared, and Beaver shrank back slightly.

"Aslan," he breathed harshly, his eyes narrowed to thin, yellow slits, "_Aslan_ is my king."

"Well, I know _that_, of course, but Edmund's your king too. As is Peter," he added hurriedly, as Fox did not seem convinced. "And I think that maybe you're being a might too critical of Edmund. He may not have quite understood what you were doing in time, but his heart was in the right place, wasn't it?"

"I hate that phrase," spat Fox, and he turned away. "He meant well, yes, he meant to save my life." He flicked his tail and he sighed, but it was an angry sigh. "There are two different things, you know, to pretend to be a spy and to actually be a traitor. I never considered turning sides when I was a spy. Such an act…" He left the sentence to hang.

"He was bewitched, Fox," said Beaver again. He slapped his tail again on the ground, more out of nervous habit then anything else.

"To turn against your family?"

Unhappy words, and Beaver's stomach flipped over. A loyalty to a family that doesn't even exist. Friends that he didn't have. Beaver suddenly realized that in any normal circumstance, someone in Fox's position could have easily switched sides without feeling too much of an emotional pull.

_He knows,_ Beaver realized abruptly. _He knows what a precious thing it is, to have a family, and he doesn't even have one_…

Fox seemed to realize that he had said enough. "I'm sure that your wife is waiting for you, Mister Beaver," he said somewhat stiffly. "You'd better be on your way." He nodded slightly, and bushed past Beaver as he began walking down the path in the opposite direction.

Everyone needed something to be happy. Something about Fox suggested to Beaver that he did not need much companionship to be at that point. Still, it was something to offer.

"Fox?"

He didn't stop, but he slowed his pace slightly and turned his head slightly to the side. "Yes?"

"If you'd ever like to come by… you know, me and Badger play cards on Thursday nights—"

Fox slowed to a slower pace still, staring down at the path, apparently regarding this carefully. "Perhaps," he said eventually. "That's… a kind offer. Yes. Perhaps." His amble picked up. "Until we meet again."

"Good-bye!" called Beaver, watching him disappear into the woods as the path turned out of sight.

When he was certain that Fox was completely gone, his tail came down again on the path with a solid _thunk_, and he exhaled explosively, almost feeling as if he had been holding his breath the entire time he had been talking. Fox did that to people.

"So sorry, sir," he remarked to the mouse absently in passing. The mouse, of course, said nothing in response.


	4. Red

**Title**: Loyalty  
**Characters:** Tumnus, White Witch, a few lackeys.  
**Prompt:** 011 – Red  
**Word Count: **Approx. 2000  
**Rating:** PG-13 for torture, I suppose. It's not that bad.  
**Summary:** The Queen of Narnia is going to give Tumnus one last chance.  
**Feedback:** Is any writer's blood and milk. Also, I'm going to extend this once again— any ideas you have for a one-shot, whether it's a plot or a simple prompt you want to give me, is much appreciated. Heck, I've got a hundred of these to do, folks, and I don't have one hundred ideas yet. :D  
**Author's Notes**: Kind of, ehh, more violent then the "two-talking" thing that's the usual for my one-shots. I was in a bit of a weird mood writing this, so I wasn't sure how fond I was of it while I was writing it, though overall I feel like I did my idea justice. It's written present-tense, and I know some people don't like stories written thus, but I wanted to give it a shot.

**Red**

_Red is for strength. _

It's thing he repeats again and again in his head as he's dragged through the halls of the Witch's ice castle, until the words tumble over themselves and get muddled together, becoming a mantra that was only a humming noise. At that point he's forced to pull it back out again, force it to mean something, force himself to listen.

_Red is for strength._

It's the color of his scarf, he thinks, then cries out without thinking as the first whiplash snaps against his shoulder. It was made even more painful by the massive gray hand that held it, and one of the two enormous trolls offers him a savage grin that is thirsty for blood. He opens his mouth to reveal huge, rotten teeth and speaks. The Faun doesn't hear anything that the monster says, and only stares at him blankly, his eyes fastened on the vile tongue behind the reddish teeth, and watches it waggle in an effort to have him listen. The tongue reminds him of a piece of meat that's been forgotten by everyone but the insects, tinted green and festering. It keeps his attention more than the words.

_Red is for strength. _

The troll roars, and that's something that he can't block out as it echoes loudly down the hall that they stand in, the chilly air and frozen walls seeming to amplify it as it passes through his white breath that hovers before his nose. His silence was obviously the wrong answer to whatever the troll was asking, and he finds he can only stiffen slightly as the great paw of the creature creaks back, pauses as the troll eyes his target, then lashes out and forward.

He had vowed to not make a noise. But as soon as the troll's bony knuckles connect dead center into his face, he can't help but shriek a sharp noise that is cut off as soon as the second blow comes to his stomach, knocking the wind out of him and sending him flying backwards into a stone wall. He hears his head crack against the icy cold stone and his jaws slam together right on top of his tongue. Something white explodes behind his eyes, and it takes Tumnus a split second to realize that the entire lower half of his face is covered in something that's warm, and seeps over his lips and down his neck. He opens his mouth and leans over from his fallen position on the ground to feebly spit out some of the stuff before he chokes on it.

Red.

He mops his face, carefully avoiding his nose. The troll is ignoring him now, and shuffles off and away while the other guffaws loudly. He just lays there for a moment, hands cupped up to beneath his eyes, and goes still. He closes his eyes, and only they seem to move without protesting objection from the rest of his body.

Breathe.

He finds one hand has drifted downward, to where his heartbeat is the most tangible, and he keeps it there, one hand on his clawing at his heart, and the other over his face, contradicting starting to slide upward—covering one eye, and then his fingers brush his hair, and further on it's one horn. It's the farthest his hands will come apart because of the manacles that bind his wrists and legs, though they're almost more of a mocking safety than an a actual necessity. Escape seems as if it would be impossible, and he's only been here for… a week? Two?

His arm aches, but his hand's movement makes its traveling more easy by the helpful blood coating the way. He tries not to think about it, focuses instead on his heartbeat. It reminds him that he's still alive. It reminds him that he has nothing to fear.

But he is, of course, scared. He's terrified. But he's also one of Aslan's people, and that thought consoles him for a moment as he remembers the years ago when he first saw the sagely lion's noble face. _Red is for strength_, he thinks with renewed strength, despite the fact that his heart is racing beneath his fingertips, and his nose is so broken his mouth is open to breathe through the blood dribbling from his lips.

But when he hears her step coming down the hall, his mind is wiped free of Aslan's face, and of the strong feeling of serenity that accompanies it. The slight burst of peace, of acceptance of his pain is ripped away and all he's left with is fear that chills him more than the woman who approaches him. He shrinks down further into himself, turning his face away from the impending click of her shoes. He hears her stop only a few paces from him.

A thousand thoughts fly through his head, one chasing after the other, each more frantic than the last. Would it be particularly painful turning into a statue, or would he not feel anything at all, being made out of rock? Would time stand still, or would he be able to feel every agonizing moment in her courtyard? Would she kill him with that simple move _now_, or would she save that for another time when his spirit is broken and he wishes for death and Lucy, oh, if only Lucy was here to see him, if only she was here to give him the strength he so desperately needed in only seeing her _smile_—

The blow that comes to his stomach is quick, unexpected, and it causes him to double-up further, the wind knocked out of him again. It also stabs him into awareness of bruises forming on top of old ones, and he feels tears prick in the corners of his eyes in the pain as he gasps.

"Get up."

He blinks twice, trying desperately to clear his eyes. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't cry in front of _her,_ not from anything she did.

Something razor sharp rips open his cheek. The pain is crude, irregular and completely unrefined, as if whatever weapon had caused it has had entire chunks missing from the cutting edge. He instinctively recoils backwards, only to collide with the marble wall again.

"I will not ask you again."

_Red is for…_

He doesn't have any doubt in his mind that she won't. He takes his hands away from his face and away from his heart and presses himself into a sitting position before bracing his cloven hooves against the ground and shakily gets to his feet. He will not, at least, die on the ground like an animal. That's what he tells himself. It's also very possible that he simply doesn't want to die.

_Red is for strength. _

When he's on his feet, he can look her in the eye. Her eyes, he notices right away, aren't the crystalline shards of blue ice he expected them to be. They are dark and brown, and contrast sharply with the paleness of her face. The effect is more frightening than if they had been blue, and he presses his palms into the wall, suddenly unsteady on his feet. His chest heaves as a stabbing throb begins beneath his ribs. He silently fights to breathe as she regards him. What she is looking for, he doesn't know.

He's taken completely aback when she touches his face, presses her thumb across the gash. His breath catches, and he sees his blood clearly in his mind's eye, rushing over that finger. A twitching, odd feeling jars this vision sharply away, and something itches on his face. The pain lessens and recedes as she slowly swipes her thumb across his cheek, the skin knitting uncomfortably back together. When she pulls away, it's not completely healed, but the ripping pain has dulled, leaving one side of his face feeling uncomfortably rigid. If he opens his mouth, will the wound rip open again?

"You know, Faun," she says conversationally, studying the blood that stains her thumb, "I thought we had an agreement."

She pauses, and Tumnus isn't sure how to fill the silence. She's staring at him so openly, so politely quizzical, that he can't find the revolutionized spirit in him again, the phoenix that he had felt in his chest the night he led Lucy to the lamppost. Now he only felt the bruises, and only saw the Witch's mystification instead of Lucy's smile. He knows he should spit at her feet, lunge for her throat, go down fighting.

Instead, he says, "You were wrong."

Her eyes come up, and he purses his lips to keep himself from flinching. His shoulders are shaking, and he squares them, and he does his best to straighten his back. Raises his chin.

_Red is for strength. _

For some reason, her eyes don't darken, but maintain the same confusion. "Faun," she murmurs, shaking her head as if they are old friends. "Oh, Faun, I thought you understood. Don't you see?" She leans in closer, her heavy robes rustling quietly. "I'm the _protector_ of Narnia. I am someone _tangible _who watches over this place. Why would you follow someone who you can't even _see_?" A sort of unhappy, sympathetic smile graces her face. "Faun, your lion does not care about Narnia. If he cared, don't you think he would be here now? Wouldn't he have been here years ago? _I_ am the one who loves Narnia, who loves my people." She touches his cheek again, and now he realizes that her hand is freezing. "It is not easy ruling. I have rules, and I enforce them. All rulers do. Is that so bad?"

No. It made sense. But the things she had done, oh, what she had done…

"But why…" the words come almost unbidden to his paper-dry mouth, and she smiles. It's a warm, genuine smile.

_She's evil. _It's a whisper, a whine, a plea to reason.

"Men are not for this place, Faun." She waves a hand behind her, her voice solemn. "You met two of them yourself! Did you not see the Son of Adam? He was willing to sell his family for a sweet. Their kind are not to be trusted, Faun. Surely you can see that, after being turned in by one of them." Her voice is hardly a whisper, enthralling, enticing. "Maybe you made a mistake."

It's suddenly much, much harder to think, and harder still to breathe.

_But Lucy… _

He feels as if he's physically drifting to one side slightly in a way that is rather hard to define, but he knows it can't be a good thing. Still, this vague feeling only comes with the more intense, panicked realization that motion can only make it worse. He focuses on her words, instead. An anchor.

"You can still come back to the right side, Faun. To my side. It's not too late."

_Red is for loyalty._

Something snaps, but it's not Lucy's laugh, or Aslan's serene stare that jars him abruptly out of her enchantment. His eyes snap up to her face again, colder, harsher, than she has been these past minutes, and her smile flickers.

"Traitor to Narnia, I would rather _die_," he snarls.

The peaceful, warm expression on her face vanishes without a trace, and he finally launches himself at her, doing what he should have done before ever being bewitched by her voice, her smiles, her words. She steps back, easily evading the disorientated Faun's clumsy attack, and her wand appears in one hand.

"Arranged."

His eyes freeze and his chest constricts. His heart stops beating, and he hears someone speaking without truly understanding it, as if she spoke underwater and he could only feel the passion she spoke with, not her words.

"Put the traitor in the courtyard."

And the last thing he remembers is the haunted look on Edmund Pevensie's face when he realizes what purpose he has served and what has become of him.


	5. Middles

**Title**: Atone  
** Characters:** Edmund, Aslan  
**Prompt:** 002 - Middles  
**Word Count:** Approx. 2000  
**Rating:** G  
**Summary:** Edmund meets with Aslan for the first time.  
**Author's Notes**: Sorry this took so long, folks. My motivation was not kickin' it for me this round. I still ask for ideas, though there have been some pretty good ones already, and I thank you for it.

For **Cass P**, who recommended that I do this scene. Thank you so much for the suggestion! And **A Amelia Black**, keep an eye out for a hint of a fic idea you've recommended that I might start next. ;)

**Atone**

He was brought directly from the hunting party to Aslan, and though he was only too glad to be away from the Witch and her followers, he couldn't truthfully say he was fully prepared to face the great lion himself. He knew that Aslan had every right to punish him, and quite frankly he knew he deserved it. He just did not want to do it. That didn't change the fact that he hadn't ever been so ashamed in his whole life.

A particularly grim-looking centaur had an unnecessarily firm grip on his shoulder as he steered the boy through the camp. All the soldiers, healers and other free creatures who were prepared for the coming war seemed to be watching him, and Edmund had never felt so small before. Some beamed at him comfortingly, and still others actually bowed, as though he was a king, as though he had been a courageous and long-suffering prisoner of war. He didn't want to be royalty. He didn't even want to think about being compared with the Queen anymore.

Despite the positive smiles, there was also a fair share of scowls— huddled groups of Fauns, Centaurs, and other mythical creatures who were either eying him warily while murmuring indiscernibly to their neighbors or staring resolutely away. The almost painful hold on his shoulder made him uncomfortably aware of his guard's view, and he felt almost as though he was being led to a condemnation than being escorted.

When they reached the base of one of the hills near the outside of the camp, the Centaur stopped. "Keep going," he intoned gruffly. "Aslan waits to speak with you." He gave Edmund a look that clearly said "_And I'll deal with you later"_ before turning to leave.

"Wait!" Edmund found his hand outstretched to the Centaur before he even realized what he was doing, and actually jerked a bit when his fingers touched his skin. The Centaur stopped, twisting his head, and stared at Edmund with an unhappily aggravated look that made the boy's stomach curl. "There… there was a fox," he said haltingly, drawing back his hand. "He… the White Witch turned him to stone…"

"Many have been turned to stone, Son of Adam," the Centaur said in his gravelly voice. Though his voice seemed to softly slightly, his face remained unfriendly. "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do."

_Nothing we can do._

The words hit Edmund like a blow to the stomach. Not only had he betrayed his family, he'd killed. Not only killed, he'd nullified a sacrifice. Death for nothing. "Isn't there any way to help?" he asked. The weakness broke through in his words, and he swallowed it back down.

"Aslan knows." With a flick of his tail the Centaur started away towards the camp again, and this time Edmund didn't call out to him. He only pressed his lips together tightly, remembering the gray stone face of the Fox, seeing again the resignation and courage turn to shock and betrayal.

_Don't think of it now._

A great back was just seeable at the top of the hill, and for some ridiculous reason Edmund thought of a lighthouse, perched on a cliff on the shores of England. His stomach flipped over as he started walking slowly up the hill— perhaps it wasn't the best idea to think of home, either. It seemed almost enough justice, to only be left with his guilt. He wondered vaguely if he would be eaten or merely killed, and he bit his lips. He wanted to run away, but there was nowhere to flee to, and anywhere (whether he was eaten or not) was better than being with the Witch.

It wasn't until he was at the very top of the hill that he got his first real look at Aslan.

The lion was not gold. That was the first thing he noticed, that his initial idea of Aslan was so simply dashed. Instead he was tan, a sandy brown, and his coat did not shine. His paws were big and worn, though his claws gleamed. His ears flicked periodically, and they seemed tattered. Overall, the only word that Edmund could think of to describe the lion was shabby, though that seemed to fit extremely awkwardly.

He was watching the sun glisten over the newly-thawed Narnia, staring at the sea that sparkled in the sun like a fish's scales. When he heard Edmund approach, however, he turned his head to look at him.

Edmund stopped dead, his heart feeling as though it was going painfully fast. He felt, suddenly, that he was doing something almost outrageously dangerous, as if he was doing to sneak up on the lion, tag it and run, as if he was on a dare. But Aslan wasn't a wild animal. He realized that as soon as he turned his eyes on him. And as he regarded Edmund with large, powerfully sorrowful eyes, he realized that he wasn't quite human, either. He was something more raw, more elemental. More noble, for all his ragged appearances suggested.

He wasn't safe, but Edmund felt as though he wasn't going to have to worry about being eaten.

An ear flicked and he smiled gently at the boy. "Edmund," he greeted softly.

His mouth opened before he even had time to think of what to say. "I'm here, Aslan," he said. He was not confident, but at least his anxiety of at least being mauled seemed ridiculous now.

"Come, Edmund. Sit by me," the great lion invited, and almost before he could register it he found himself walking forward and dropping down to sit to the left of him. He felt the melted water of the defrosted spring soaking through the seat of his pants, but for once he didn't feel any inclination to move. "Now Edmund," said Aslan, looking down at him, "your sisters and brother have been here in our camp for quite some time, and you have not. Why is this?"

He ducked his gaze away from Aslan's. A small bit of comfort did not mask enough to ease the horrible facts. "I didn't _mean_ to," he abruptly, looking up again. Without context, but he knew that it didn't matter. He heard his voice grow desperate. "She _tricked_ me!"

Aslan's face appeared troubled, and he looked from Edmund's face again.

The words kept tumbling out of his mouth, staggering, halting, unhappy. "I never meant for it to happen like that. I didn't want… I mean, maybe they annoy me sometimes, but I never knew she was going to try to kill them. I thought she… she said they would be servants." _Slaves_, a hissing voice whispered in the back of his mind. _You imagined they would be slaves_. "I would be the king, and they would be servants. I didn't… she tricked me. It wasn't my fault, Aslan, sir."

The lion said nothing.

"Isn't that alright?" Found that the lion's response meant something to him, was important. A condemnation or a pardon. "Isn't that…"

"No, Son of Adam," said Aslan gravely, looking down at him. "You are not fine, because you have not realized what you have done wrong."

"I haven't—"

He fell silent the moment that Aslan looked at him again. He felt something within those eyes, some sort of pulling. They felt like _mirrors_, almost, mirrors that kept distorting his image. They felt differently than that exactly, more complex, and he wished he could express it better. But then, he was unsure if even Susan would be able to think of a word for the feeling that Edmund got, looking into the lion's eyes.

The lion's voice was a low growl, nonthreatening, and almost _gentle_, but enough to make Edmund bite his lips as he continued to look the lion squarely in the face. "You mean to say, Son of Adam, that the White Witch bewitched you to believe that you wanted to be the king of Narnia? That you wanted your older brother and sister, and your youngest sibling, to be servants while you ruled?"

The mirror turned, caught a reflection, sent it back. Hearing it in such a way made Edmund want to sink into his shoes and disappear. His mouth formed the word "no," but he found his vocal cords strangely disconnected, and quickly enough he stared again at the ground.

"You're right." It was a strained, barely recognizable sentence. "You're right, Aslan. I…" he found he couldn't continue, and broke off awkwardly. His stomach turned over, not with nausea, but with a deep feeling of shame.

"Edmund, look at me."

He did, and the mirrors in Aslan's eyes turned again. "You are not beyond redemption for your sins, son of Adam."

He shook his head, and felt his hands buried deep in his hair. He had no recollection of ever putting them there. "Aslan, I don't know how I can make things right again. I don't know how—"

What felt like a sandbag fell on Edmund's shoulder. In reality, it was only Aslan's paw, and he was placing it as gently as possible in what he assumed to be a soothing gesture, and in some peculiar way, it _was_ a feeling of comfort. "Son of Adam," murmured the lion gravely. Edmund looked up, hearing the unhappiness in his voice, but still only saw strength. "I know a way out of guilt. Out of evil. Into trust and love." He bent his head closer to Edmund's shoulder, and the boy surpassed a shiver as his voice lowered to a whisper. "Love your brother for being true, and your older sister for being wise. Love your youngest for being courageous." The massive eyes blinked. Edmund found he had been holding his breath, and he released it in a loudly as the lion slowly pulled himself to his feet. He started back down the hill, tossing his head in a motion for Edmund to follow. He immediately scrambled to his feet to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with the lion.

"You cannot compare yourself with Peter, or your other siblings, Edmund." And now Aslan had seen the mirror that turned in Edmund himself, and he felt his mouth instantly draw into a thin, unhappy line. "You have your own qualities that you bring to them and makes you special. You don't need to be afraid. Love them for being them, Edmund. Only then can you have atoned for your mistakes, and though that, you will learn to love yourself for who you are."

"But Aslan," he cried out before he could stop himself. "Aslan, sir," he stammered as a form of apology when the lion looked at him, "I haven't… I don't have any qualities." _Good qualities_, he wanted to say. He was awfully good at being cruel and malicious lately. At the thought he lowered his head to stare at his clasped hands.

He expected Aslan to tell him to not be ridiculous, and tell him something that he was, that made him special. But the lion only looked at him strangely, pausing in his step, and Edmund imagined that the back of the mirror was facing him now. "Edmund," he said quietly, and for the first time his voice sounded unhappy, tired. "Only you can understand yourself. I can't do that for you." He paused, and smiled. "I have faith in you, Son of Adam. You may still be in a state of uncertainty now, but that is understandable."

"_Edmund_!"

The shill shriek made Edmund stiffen in surprise, and only a little ways down the hill he saw Lucy and Susan waving frantically at him, and Peter only watched him with an indescribable expression on his face. He could never read Peter well. He smiled uneasily back, and Aslan met his eyes for only the briefest moment before striding purposefully in front of him to murmur something to his sisters and brother. Then he was gone, and Lucy and Susan were both hugging him. Peter was smiling, and he found, surprisingly, that it wasn't that hard to smile back.

There was no intelligence, or bravery, or loyalty now. There was only love, and Edmund found that that was as good a place as any to start.


End file.
